


Venus in Retrograde

by Theyumenoinu



Category: Hannibal (TV), Hannibal Lecter Series - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Supernatural Elements, Canon-Typical Violence, Captivity, Dad!Will, Demons, Dreams vs. Reality, Emotional Manipulation, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, F/M, Gaslighting, Hannibal is Hannibal, Jealous Will, M/M, Manipulation, Mirror Hannibal, Pining, Possessive Hannibal, Serial Killer Grooming, Stockholm Syndrome, dark!Will
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-10
Updated: 2017-04-19
Packaged: 2018-10-17 09:38:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,758
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10591332
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Theyumenoinu/pseuds/Theyumenoinu
Summary: After enduring months of pining and shattering disappointment from the sudden announcement of Hannibal’s proposal to Alana, Will begins having vivid, idealistic dreams of a life he could have led with the handsome therapist. The dreams, at first, seeming harmless until they start taking on a more sinister edge, keeping him trapped for longer and longer intervals between dreaming and waking. Leading him to believe he’s going crazy as he exhaustively wrestles with his mind to determine which life is his true reality.That is, until one of the missing persons from an ongoing FBI investigation appears unexpectedly at his doorstep, requesting a new identity in exchange for the truth.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own Hannibal or its characters.
> 
> Updates: sporadically

 

 

**Venus in Retrograde**

 

**Chapter One**

 

 

 

 _I know you, I walked with you once upon a dream_  
_I know you, that look in your eyes is so familiar a gleam_  
 _And I know it's true that visions are seldom all they seem_  
 _But if I know you, I know what you'll do_  
 _You'll love me at once_  
 _The way you did once upon a dream.._  
  
-Lana Del Rey (Disney's "Maleficent")

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

“Tell me about this dream.”

Will rolls the neck of the wine glass between the tips of his pointer finger and thumb. Observing how the deep red liquor sloshes against the glass, staining the clear crystal a pale shade of maroon.  

“I hardly remember much,” he admits. “Barely enough to form a construct.”

Hannibal hums in reply, noncommittal, and elegantly dips his head to take an appreciative whiff from his own glass. “Yet, you remember enough to feel its significance.”

“No, I wouldn’t say that,” Will dismisses. “I’m not really sure why I even brought it up.” He chuckles self-consciously, raking fingers through his hair out of nervous habit. “It’s probably the least of my problems.”

“Probably.” Hannibal smiles indulgently. “But sometimes dreams can shed light on what we often suppress or overlook in waking hours.” Hannibal inches forward in his seat, the slide of fabric against leather loud within the silence of the room. “Sleep allows us time for introspection—delving deep within ourselves without encountering conscious barriers that would otherwise prevent us from unearthing certain truths.”

Will grunts by way of response, unsure of his feelings on the matter. Recalling countless nights twisting in his sheets as his mind is fraught with blood and death; the increasingly familiar sight of a feathered stag haunting him distantly at every gory scene.

“I’m just not sure I want to discuss it with you,” he says at length, tipping the rim of his glass against his lips; the presence of alcohol aiding in soothing his fraying nerves.

“May I ask why?” Hannibal ventures, tipping his head to the side to convey genuine curiosity. Offering Will a choice to retain his privacy, if he wishes.

Will nervously rubs the stubble on his chin. Noting the spike of heat creeping up his neck when he replies, “It hits close to home.”

A spark of interest alights the dark depths of Hannibal’s eyes, but the man quickly composes himself. His efforts to uphold their vow of casual conversation something Will immensely appreciates.

“I see. Whereas most of your dreams lead you down the paths carved by others, this led you down one of your own making.” He pauses, pinning Will under a searching look before daring a guess, “Was I in this dream?”

Swallowing convulsively, Will shies away from direct eye contact, and rises to meander the room. Coming to a halt before the openly displayed sculpture of a stag. Admiring the detailed work of its antlers to distract from the keen gaze boring into his backside.

“Yes,” he reluctantly answers.

“Were we at a crime scene?” Hannibal pushes, and as impersonal as the question may be, the heat in Will’s face intensifies.

“No.” He gulps down more of the wine, unwilling to remove his gaze from the stag. “We were here, uh, in your office.”

“So, we were having a discussion, then,” Hannibal concludes. “What was so dissimilar to what we’re doing now?”

Licking his bottom lip, Will rolls it beneath his teeth. Inwardly debating whether divulging what happened would be appropriate or not, all things considered.

“You were different,” he opts for vague. “You were you, but…” he trails off, downing what little remains in his glass.

“But?” Hannibal presses.

“I don’t know.”

Hannibal hums again, though its meaning is ambiguous. “Do you recall anything I had said?”

“Nothing,” he returns with a sigh. “I only have impressions of the conversation, like watching a film with the sound muted.”

There’s a small squeak of leather when Hannibal stands to join him. Telegraphing his movements to Will as he approaches; his footfalls oddly louder in contrast to his normally quiet gait, causing Will’s heartbeats to quicken. His eyes closing of their own volition once he feels the heat of the man at his back, the soft caress of breath against his nape.

Will swallows to ease the dryness in his throat.

“You may take the sculpture, if you’d like.”

“What?” Will whispers, jarred by Hannibal’s unexpected offer. “No. That’s—” He steals a glance over his shoulder, disappointed to find Hannibal retreating swiftly, granting him a comfortable distance that he desperately doesn’t desire at the moment. “I – I couldn’t.”

“I insist,” Hannibal says, nonchalantly turning in direction of his desk. “You are often drawn to it, and your birthday is next week, so consider it my present to you.” Collecting a few scattered logbooks across its polished surface, Hannibal begins stacking them neatly at the corner; his eyes flicking up to Will expectantly. “As well as a dinner invitation?”

“Oh, uh.” Will shakes his head, momentarily thrown on how to politely decline. “Thank you. That’s… _thoughtful_ , but there’s really no need to go to the trouble—”

“No trouble at all,” Hannibal’s quick to assure, hands smoothing the slightly bunched material of his dark suit jacket. “A birthday is a special occasion, even more so when it’s that of a friend’s. Perhaps I can convince Alana to co-host as well.”

At that, Will’s lips pull taut in a watered down version of a friendly smile; though, he’s certain it’s perceived more as a grimace. Almost swearing something sharp slices open his rib cage at the mention of her name. Hannibal’s fondness for her seemingly ever growing, constricting around his heart as a snake would its prey.

“I guess one dinner couldn’t hurt,” he mutters, bordering on irritation as the rush from minutes earlier dissipates.

Hannibal’s mouth curls, pleased by his acquiescence and apparently ignorant of the longing threatening to overwhelm. “I’ll make certain the evening will be as painless as possible,” he promises with a teasing air.

Turning his eyes downcast to scrutinize the scuff marks across his boots from countless hikes through the woods, Will huffs a laugh. “Dinner parties are hardly anything but. The social graces alone are enough to kill me.”

A chuckle feathers across the space dividing them and it instantly draws Will’s attention back to Hannibal. Glancing up to absorb the rarity of the man’s amusement; the way he ducks his head, and how the skin at the corner of his eyes crinkle, his lips parting to reveal a hint of teeth.

It’s the sincerest reaction Will is ever permitted. The rest remains a mystery, concealed behind professional conduct.

He’s wrenched from his captivation, however, by an unexpected knock at the door, and averts his gaze to the stag once again—abashed to have almost been caught openly admiring his therapist. Giving a jerky nod when Hannibal excuses himself to answer it.

“Alana?” Will hears behind him, Hannibal’s tone conveying nothing but pleasant surprise. “I did not expect you for another twenty minutes.”

“I’m sorry to barge in unannounced,” she apologizes. “The weather report calls for heavy snowfall, and I figured it would be best if we left earlier than planned.” A pause. “But if I’m interrupting…”

“It’s quite all right. Will and I were just wrapping up,” he assures her, simultaneously gifting Will an answer on where he currently stands.

“Will?”

He whirls around at that, concealing his brooding beneath an indifferent mask. Finding Alana hesitating at the threshold, dressed in formal evening wear. Concern pinching the skin between her brows.

“Hello, Alana,” he greets, settling his attention on the sweep of curls against her collar bones, the ends caught in the fibers of her open coat. “It’s been a while.”

“Yes, it has,” she agrees, somewhat stiffly. Clearly as lost as he is on how to act after their brief affair and her subsequent rejection nearly a year ago. “I’ve missed you,” she confesses.

Will can’t quite differentiate if the pang in his chest is due to her guilt or his own.  

“I know.” He glances up, then, offering a token smile to mitigate her discomfort. “Me, too,” he admits honestly; incapable of holding any resentment, even if he tries.

She returns the smile, though it hardly reaches her eyes. Seeming skeptical of the easement descending upon them.

“I apologize for cutting our time short, Will,” Hannibal swiftly steps in, lifting the burden of conversation from both their shoulders. “We can talk more about the new details of the case next week at our usual time, if you’d like.”

“Of course.” Will inwardly berates himself for forgetting the main reason for their talks. “Yeah, I – that would be fine.” He knows better than to pry, but the question slips out unbidden anyway, “Where are you two headed?”

Alana flushes a pale pink, fidgeting with her purse as she shoots a sidelong glance at Hannibal. Her none too subtle attempt to gauge his reaction settling heavy in the pit of Will’s stomach as Hannibal moves to stand at her side, placing a hand at the small of her back.

“Alana has invited me to meet her parents over dinner,” he informs, regarding her with remarkable warmth.

“O-oh,” Will stutters, comprehending exactly what that means. “That’s, uh, pretty serious. I wasn’t aware you two were…dating.” The word feels like grit on his tongue. His heart taking a direct plummet to the ground.

“You haven’t told him?” Alana accuses, disapproval evident by the firm set of her mouth. Hannibal at least having the decency to appear regretful for his obvious omission.

“I wished to tell him together,” he defends before readdressing Will. “Forgive me for not divulging this to you sooner, Will. I felt it was best that we stay focused on the case and your well-being.” Straightening his posture, Hannibal intakes a breath and states, “I’ve recently asked Alana to marry me.”

The world caves beneath Will’s feet.

 

 

 

~*~

 

 

 

 

Will slams back into himself some time later; slumped in one of the fur covered chairs in his house, and clad in a shirt and boxers, staring absently at the profile of the stag sculpture now perched on the mantel. In his hand he grips the bottle of whiskey he’s stored for a rainy day, uncorked and drained a quarter of its contents. His other rests upon Winston’s head, who gazes up at him worriedly while the rest of the pack lounges interspersed around the room—completely unfazed by another one of their master’s mental breakdowns.

Winston whines in what he assumes is sympathy, always having been more attuned to Will’s moods than the others. Will scratches behind his ears, appreciating the reciprocating affection as Winston licks along his forearm.

“I guess dating isn’t in the cards for me, Winston.” Will sighs, bringing the glass bottle to his lips for another swig, and releasing a sharp hiss when the liquid burns down his parched throat. “I was stupid to think he would be interested in someone like me.” He chuckles derisively, glancing around his tiny, cluttered home with self-reproach. “I’m not exactly on par with his particular tastes, now am I?”

Heaving a sigh, Will removes himself from the chair, and stumbles towards his bed. The hard lumps in the cheap mattress only adding to his misery as he collapses onto it—barely remembering to set the bottle on the side table.

By the time his head hits the pillow, he’s out cold.

 

 

 

~*~

                                                                                         

 

 

 

Will gradually surfaces from his alcohol induced stupor to the muffled clinks and clangs of cookware, the sizzling of food frying in a pan and its heady aroma wafting through the cracks of the door. Disorientation and nausea bowling over him, while his brain slowly processes the abnormality of its presence—struggling to recall the reason.

_I live alone._

With a sudden kick of adrenaline, Will bolts upright to discover he’s lying in a four-poster bed within one of the upstairs bedrooms. Moonlight streaming in through the rift in the thick curtains, bathing an accenting rug and half of a chaise lounge in the corner beside the closet—none of which has ever been there before. The room normally used as a storage area, filled with dusty boxes of miscellaneous items and fishing gear.

Flinging the silken sheets from atop him, Will scrambles off the bed, his bare feet sinking into plush carpeting that sends his head spinning. Not bothering to search for pants as he wrenches the door open, clenching his eyes shut when they’re immediately stabbed by light. The noises from the kitchen dying abruptly, as though the intruder is aware that Will is awake.

There is nothing he finds within reach to use as a weapon, and his gun he usually keeps downstairs, so Will pads out into the hallway unarmed. Knowing it’s not the best decision, but having little other choice in the matter. Scrutinizing the immaculately clean carpeting as he continues on toward the stairs, notably absent of dog hair and its decade worth of stains.

Music startles him by the time he reaches the bottom landing, a classical piece that reminds him of what Hannibal plays during their unconventional, therapeutic drinks. He follows it through the living room, taking in the matching, obviously new furniture in complete bewilderment. The entire design changed and meticulously arranged to reflect an elegant taste, save for the stag sculpture which hasn’t moved from the place he left it.

_What kind of intruder redecorates?_

Collecting the gun from its spot in the desk drawer, Will steps uncertainly in direction of the kitchen. Turning the corner to behold a small, wooden dining table set for two; candles burning with a centerpiece of various flowers. And just beyond that, with his broad backside facing him, stands a man he could recognize with his eyes closed.

“Hannibal?”

Glimpsing him over his shoulder, Hannibal flashes him a fond smile, then hastens to finish the task of plating the food on fanciful designed, golden dishes that Will’s certainly never owned.

“Hello, my dear Will,” he greets gently before rotating to face him, balancing both plates in his hands. “Your timing is flawless as ever.”

Will takes in his immaculate appearance. His hair slicked back, and changed into a white suit and maroon paisley tie, the ebony dress shoes shined to perfection. Causing Will to feel entirely underdressed in his own home, even considering the ungodly hour.

“What—How did—” Will falters, flabbergasted by it all, and grappling to form some kind of coherent sentence. “Why are you here— _cooking—_ at,” he checks the wall clock beside the stove, “three in the morning?” With a wild wave of his gun, he asks almost shrilly, “What did you do to my house?”

Something unreadable fleets across Hannibal’s face as he crosses the kitchen to the table, placing their meals upon neatly folded, cloth napkins with his usual flair.

“I wanted to surprise you,” Hannibal confesses, eyes downcast as he nudges a flute filled nearly to the rim with sparkling wine, until it aligns perfectly with its twin at the opposite end. “It is, after all, a very special day.”

Will’s heart wrenches at the reminder, partly due to returning disappointed and from outrage at the man abandoning his plans with Alana. Finding himself incapable of suppressing his bitterness as he caustically replies, “What a gentlemen you are, Hannibal. Ditching Alana’s parents in favor of celebrating with me—I feel so honored.”

Hannibal’s chin inclines an inch at that, his brows arching fractionally in surprise when Will boldly meets his eyes in challenge. Distantly noting how the subdued lighting deepens the shades of red in the man’s irises.

“I don’t understand why I would be meeting Alana’s parents,” Hannibal returns, a single blink cutting their connection. “She is a remarkable colleague and a very dear friend, but I think that hardly constitutes a reason to seek her family’s approval for our engagement.”

Everything stutters to a halt.

“Our…” he rasps, then clears his throat. “What?”

Hannibal’s head dips indicatively toward Will’s left hand. And when Will balks at what he’ll find, Hannibal decidedly strides over to him to take it tentatively in his own. His touch warm, and most alarmingly, _real._

Breath catching, Will watches as his hand is slowly raised to be level with his face, bringing into view a single white gold band wrapped around his third finger. The embossed diamonds and sapphires glittering brilliantly in the dim candlelight; its beauty as equal as the décor.  

Too struck by its mere existence, Will scarcely registers a whisper of lips against his wrist, the intimate stroke of a thumb across his cheek.

“You agreed in my office just the other night,” Hannibal reminds him with an amused chuckle. “Come sit, Dearest.” He gestures to the table with a sweep of his hand. “We still have much to discuss.”

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

 

 

**Chapter Two**

 

 

 

 

 

The cooked birds look appetizing atop a bed of greens, yet despite the insistent ache in his stomach, Will does nothing more than scrutinize. Nausea burning in his throat—a consequence of the whiskey, perhaps, or the fact the little band still dazzles him whenever his hand twitches to take up his silverware.

Hannibal waits patiently for him to commence eating—ever the polite host. Allowing Will a moment to collect himself. Though, he could do without the weight of the man’s probing stare; drilling holes clean through to the back of his skull.

“We are eating grilled quail with Goji berries and pine nuts,” Hannibal informs, as though his lapse in recite is to blame for Will’s hesitancy. “And paired with your preferred brand of Pinot Noir.”

“Sounds delicious,” he says a bit tartly, shifting minutely in his seat. Studying the glossy wood of the table, dumbfounded by the authentic mahogany just beneath his fingertips. “But I seem to be lacking an appetite.”

“Perhaps a drink, then?” Will catches movement and it forces his regard. The wine taking on a golden hue from the glow of flames as Hannibal lifts his flute, poised for a toast. “Please join me, Will,” he requests.

At a loss, Will grudgingly pinches the neck of his own and mirrors Hannibal. A flicker of satisfaction surfacing in the red tones of the man’s eyes, serving to ratchet Will’s discomfort even more. Deciding to shift his attention to the backdoor just beyond Hannibal’s shoulder, he concentrates on the curvature of the waxing crescent smiling mischievously through the glass pane like it harbors a secret.

Hannibal barely seems bothered by Will’s aversion, perfectly content to begin without the need of visual contact:

“‘Let me not to the marriage of true minds  
Admit impediments. Love is not love  
Which alters when it alteration finds,  
Or bends with the remover to remove:  
O, no! it is an ever-fixed mark  
That looks on tempests and never shaken;  
It is the star to every wandering bark,  
Whose worth’s unknown, although his height be taken  
Love’s not Time’s fool, though rosy lips and cheeks  
Within his bending sickle’s compass come:  
Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks,  
But bears it out even to the edge of doom.  
If this be error and upon me proved,  
I never writ, nor no man ever loved.’”

Hannibal’s voice is velvet, the words seeping deep within the alcoves of Will’s mind to extinguish the remnants of hopelessness.

“Shakespeare?” Will manages to say plainly, battling an increasing urge to surrender to the situation. “That’s…hardly original.”

“I suppose,” Hannibal agrees, conveying his delight at Will’s repartee with a soft chuckle. “But nevertheless profound.”

Will scoffs, habitually bringing the glass a centimeter from his mouth to act as a shield. The initial sense of wrong returning from beneath the current of tentative acceptance.

“Why are you doing this?” he questions accusingly. “I don’t understand how this is happening. _Any_ of this.”

Hannibal hesitates partaking a drink. Appearing to be processing Will’s suspicions before something internally clicks.

“You’ve had another dream,” he surmises abruptly, gifting Will a commiserating look while lowering his glass to the table. “You often succumb to a state of confusion subsequent to them, and experience inexplicable amnesia that lasts for several hours.” At Will’s blank stare, he finishes morosely, “The doctors have yet to determine an exact cause.”

An incredulous laugh punches out from him at that, disrupting the gentle cadence of the classical score playing in the background. “You’re not serious.”

“I assure you that I am.” Hannibal gestures towards Will’s plate. “Please eat, Will. You’ll feel better.”

“No,” Will snaps defiantly, rubbing at the clammy skin of his forehead, sweat beading along his brow. “Tell me what happened to my house.”

Hannibal sighs, which Will translates to mean there’s an unshakable truth about to be delivered.

“We moved in together some months ago,” Hannibal says, matter-of-fact. “On the compromise that I would sell my home, so long as I was permitted a few personal touches.”

“A few?” he parrots, glancing around pointedly.

The man’s lips curl, amused to be called out. “An understatement, perhaps.” Lifting his drink, he indulges a small sip, undoubtedly hoping Will to do the same. “Though, I suspect my tastes won’t impress much with your father either, based on your description of him.”

“My father?” Will blurts, failing to follow the giant leap in their conversation. “What do you mean, my father?”

“I mean when he arrives to meet your betrothed and discuss our upcoming nuptials.” Hannibal’s smirk broadens, bordering on impish. Will practically inhales the wine in an attempt to combat the heat of future embarrassment that implies.

“My father isn’t the socializing type,” Will murmurs into his glass, refraining from commenting on the heady taste of the liquor. “He’s reclusive and far too stubborn to leave his plot of land for any occasion, short of making a living.”                                                                  

Hannibal hums thoughtfully, then takes another appreciative sip from his flute. “Not even for school plays?”

Will snorts at his blatant facetiousness. “A tree is rarely the star of the show.”

“Yet it is a significant component to the setting of a story,” Hannibal swiftly adds, testing the limits of Will’s humor. “I’m sure you made a convincing tree.”

“Could’ve fooled anyone,” he jests in return, scratching at his nape in attempt to dispel a prickling sensation along his flesh.

The food sitting before him is still steaming, its aroma a siren call to his growing hunger. Seconds away from tasting it when realization strikes that it hasn’t lured in any other hungry residents.

“Where are my dogs?”

“With Abigail,” he answers casually, as though it were obvious. “They can hardly be separated from her, with the exception of Winston. He loyally stands guard at our bedside.”

Picking up his silverware, Hannibal decisively slices into his bird; examining the meat briefly on the tines of his fork before placing it delicately between his teeth. Will studies his movements, the scene wavering around him as disbelief sinks into his skin like powerful talons.

“A…” He swallows in attempt to dislodge the lump forming at the base of his throat, his pulse hammering painfully against his temple. “Abigail?” the name scarcely leaves his lips, a myriad of emotion vying for dominance as the vision of blanched skin drenched crimson emerges from the depths. “She’s…here?” he whispers brokenly.

Hannibal’s brows furrow at Will’s reaction, the slight frown he sports incongruous to his earlier nonchalance. “Of course,” he confirms. “She is in her bedroom, upstairs.”

Will bolts from his chair without a second thought. The motion toppling his drink—a keen cracking of glass chasing him as he dashes from the table, through the living room, and back up the stairs. Blood roaring in his ears as the hall sways dangerously before him, nearly tripping over his feet to reach the second door at the end, now painted with an elegant ‘A’ upon its surface.  

He comes to an abrupt halt before it. His hand trembling when he eventually grasps the brass handle, exhaling sharply at the icy wave of dread that crashes over him once he feels the solidity of it against his palm.

There’s a flash of blue tinted lips—of half-lidded eyes fixed upon the ceiling, unseeing.

He opens the door.

“I was just finishing this level,” a soft voice rushes to justify their wakefulness in the late hour, as she did virtually every school night. The glow of the television cutting through the darkness, framing the dogs curled alongside the frame of the bed. “But I’ll go to sleep now, I promise.”

Will remains frozen in the doorway. The world swimming at the sight of her in the place she should always be. Her appearance fractionally changed by time with a face still round with youth, but eyes keener; an innocence lost. No longer a child, yet no older than thirteen—a lady caught in-between.

“Dad?” she starts, undoubtedly puzzled by his lack of response. The PlayStation controller sliding across her leg before she releases it to sink into the comforter bunched at her knee.

A second passes, then another. His foot moves forward, and then the other. Before his mind connects what he’s doing, he’s collapsed onto the mattress and is yanking her into an embrace. His arms locking her to him, temporarily forgetting the ability to let go. The weight and warmth of her against his chest unbearably wonderful, while strands of hair mockingly tickle his cheek now damp with a flood of tears.

He weeps as silently as possible, and clutches her closer in fear she might fade away. Relief swirling with grief when she doesn’t.

“Dad,” she repeats, breathless and perplexed, once his sobs subside. “You’re crushing me.”

With a tremendous amount of willpower, Will relinquishes her. Despising the haunting sensation of emptiness once she’s moved from his arms completely.

“Right.” Will hastily scrubs at his face to remove the evidence of his breakdown, despite the fact she witnessed its extremity. “I’m sorry, but I’ve just missed—” He inhales a shaky breath. “It’s been—”

_This can’t be real._

“Are you okay?” Validation of her existence comes in the form of a reassuring squeeze at his shoulders, causing him to sag nearly boneless against her. “Maybe you should lie down.”

“Yeah,” he agrees with a tiny nod. “Okay.” He obeys instantly; much too drained to continue fighting his crippling confusion and far too exhausted of the bitter loneliness to reject the notion of familiar comfort. His head resting against one of her pillows, gazing steadfastly upon her lost expression. Recalling seeing something similar when he would scare away the boogeyman in the closet in her younger days.

“This is where I’d curl up to read you a bedtime story, you know,” he tells her, voice straining to speak through the flood of memories. “You’d always fall asleep before I could finish.”

Abigail’s lips quirk, a fond gleam in her eye.

“Do you want me to tell you a bedtime story?” she asks, shifting until she blocks the light of the television; her features falling into shadow.

“I don’t want to sleep,” he protests, so quiet he can scarcely hear his own words.

“You don’t have to,” she soothes, fingers tangling in his curls in mimicry of his easing touch. “Just close your eyes and listen.”

Will gradually relaxes into the bed, his ears filling with mystical tales of evil sorcerers and valiant knights—the gratefulness of a king reunited with his princess.  

 

 

 

~*~

 

 

 

When Will awakes, it’s to a jarring silence. His senses informing him of his whereabouts by the stuffy air, the dirty sheets beneath him, and irritation of dust in his nostrils before he dares chance a look.

The room is bathed in a spectrum of soft greys from filtered daylight, and the air is bitter cold from neglected insulation. But more wrenchingly, it stands empty. Nothing there to greet him, save for the framed picture on the side table; the glass layered in a thin film of dust, nearly concealing the candid happiness of people he no longer recognizes.

_My daughter’s still dead._

Pressure builds in his chest to release forth in a strangled cry. Teetering on the edge of hysteria as he examines his left hand, discovering the ring missing as well.

_It was only a dream._

He doesn’t move when a thundering of paws erupt down the hall. Nor does he leave when his ringtone blares from someplace downstairs.

Will stays where he lies until she’s safely locked behind a fortress wall inside his mind. Somewhere even he cannot reach her.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feedback is greatly appreciated.


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